Otherworlds

Loaded with metaphor, a seed signed and ready, Or clever code to upload, Somewhere in an abstract pocket, or third eye squint Or heart-glow or something It’s time to lay back and dark the eyes, and don’t think About the process (but you do) The veil isn’t some gauzy temple thing Or symbol rich tapestry It’s a rug, much swept-under, and all the sweepings wait And ambush with What If? and Why? and Arguments (in hindsight easily) to win, and Memories, and Tasks undone, and Snatches of old songs, and New ideas – so sneaky- much more interesting than This But press on without trying Don’t listen, don’t engage, as they take your hand And lead you through the streets till undone To Memory Lane, or Could-Be-Would-Be Land Pass on, pass on, pay no attention to the man The men, the women, the many, Behind the curtain Which is a rug much swept-under Until the noise subsides And images arise for you, to view, Distracting no longer, but odd Alice odd, not no but yes Od